McKettrick's Heart (28 page)

“All I'm trying to say is you're taking a very big chance here. Not just with your own peace of mind, but with Devon's, too.”

“What would you do in my place, Travis? No lawyer bullshit. Tell me the truth.”

Travis sighed. Shoved a hand through his hair. “I'd give Shelley the money and hope to God she wants the rest enough to play ball.”

Keegan swallowed. “Tell Shelley's lawyer we'll transfer the funds as soon as we have a signed, notarized document.”

“You're sure?” Travis asked.

“I'm sure,” Keegan said.

“When do you plan to tell Devon?”

“Tomorrow,” Keegan answered. “When she gets home from Jesse and Cheyenne's.”

Travis nodded. “The sooner the better, buddy,” he said. Then he slapped Keegan's shoulder. “And one more thing. Congratulations.” He grinned. “You got married today, remember?”

“I remember,” Keegan said.

“Go get your bride,” Travis urged. “Take her home.”

Take her home.

Would the Triple M ever be Molly's real home? Or would she want to go back to L.A. when the obligatory year of living together was over? She had a life there, a home, friends, a business.

And she'd take Lucas with her, if she went.

Keegan felt sick at the thought. For all his big talk, there wouldn't be much he could do to stop her.

“Keeg?” Travis said.

Keegan focused on his friend's face.

Travis tapped Keegan's forehead with one finger. “Stop spending so much time up here,” he said before lowering his hand to thump once at his heart, “and think from
here
once in a while.”

Keegan frowned. What the hell did
that
mean?

Travis chuckled. “Think about it,” he said. And then he was gone.

 

I
T WAS RAINING HARD
by the time Molly and Keegan reached the ranch house. Keegan parked the Jag as close to the back door as he could, lifted Molly into his arms and ran. And they both got drenched.

Inside, breathing hard, he set Molly on her feet. Rainwater glistened in his hair and along his eyelashes, like tears.

Molly's heart ached with happiness as she looked up at him.

I love you,
she wanted to say. But she didn't dare. She wouldn't be able to bear seeing pity in his eyes, or regret.

“You'd better get into some dry clothes,” he said practically.

Her suitcases were upstairs, in the bedroom they would share; Rance had delivered them earlier that day.

“Put on some jeans,” Keegan added when Molly didn't speak right away.

So much for her plan to slip into the slinky negligee Joanie had given her for a wedding present.

“Jeans?” she said.

“And a flannel shirt, if you have one,” Keegan said, starting for the door.

Unlike Molly, he'd changed into ordinary clothes before leaving Psyche's place. “Where are you going?” she managed, after swallowing.

“To the barn,” he answered, as though surprised by the question. “I have to feed Spud and the horses.”

“Okay,” Molly said, mystified and profoundly disappointed.

It was her wedding day. And even though she knew Keegan didn't love her, she'd expected to come before the livestock.

Keegan went out.

Molly stood there for a few moments, then went upstairs and opened doors until she found the master bedroom. She swapped her wedding dress, panty hose and fancy shoes for a pair of jeans, heavy socks and one of Keegan's flannel shirts, since she didn't own one herself. Wedged her grateful feet into running shoes—the high heels were new, and they pinched.

Avoiding looking at the bed, she turned to the bureau. Gazed at herself in the antique mirror above it.

Who was this woman?

Molly McKettrick.

Ranch wife.

Lucas's mother, Devon's stepmother.

Owner of many, many pairs of shoes.

Tears threatened, but Molly was tired of tears. She sucked it in, turned and marched downstairs again.

When Keegan got back from the barn she had the wood cookstove going, radiating warmth, and the kitchen was only a little smoky. She stood on tiptoe to turn the knob to open the damper.

Keegan stopped, soaked, on the threshold.

“Horses all right?” Molly asked, just to break the silence.

He stepped inside. Closed the door.

Stared at her, almost as if she were a stranger, making herself at home in his kitchen.

“Keegan,” Molly said.

“What?” He ground out the word.

“Come over here and stand by the stove while I get you a change of clothes. You're wet to the skin.”

He paused, then dripped his way over to stand within the almost palpable heat emanating from the ancient stove. “You built a fire,” he said, and he sounded flummoxed.

“Well, duh,” Molly said, smiling determinedly. “It's not so hard, you know. A little crumpled newspaper, some kindling, a match and—voilà!—a lovely, crackling blaze. I've seen people do it a hundred times on the late-late show.”

Something softened in Keegan's eyes.

“Stay right here,” Molly told him, and dashed away.

A few minutes later she was back with towels, a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt.

Keegan had recovered enough to start a pot of coffee brewing on the cookstove, forswearing the modern coffeemaker on the counter, perhaps getting into the spirit of the thing, and splashing mud and rainwater all over the kitchen floor in the process.

Molly set the clothes and all but one towel down on the end of a small table next to the wall and dabbed tentatively at Keegan's face. Then she got bolder and toweled his hair so that it stood out around his head, and they both laughed.

He laid his hands on the sides of her waist, and was about to pull her close—she knew he was—when the telephone rang.

Psyche,
Molly thought. Then,
Oh, please—not tonight.

The second ring seemed more insistent than the first.

Keegan released Molly, visibly steeled himself and went to grab up the receiver. “Keegan,” he said instead of “hello.” His voice was ragged.

Molly watched his face and bearing change as he listened.

She took a step toward him, stopped at the stay-back look that rose instantly in his eyes.

“No,” he said into the phone. “No, there's no point in that. But you shouldn't be alone right now, Florence.”

Molly closed her eyes.

“All right,” Keegan went on after listening again. “Okay, if you're sure. Yes. I'll be there first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime—” He stopped, nodded. “All right,” he said again. “Thanks.” After a hoarse goodbye, he thumbed the button on the phone, ending the call. Set the receiver down slowly.

“Psyche?” Molly asked when she could bear it no longer.

“Yes,” Keegan said, avoiding her eyes. “Half an hour ago.”

Molly had expected Keegan to fall apart. Instead, she was the one who caved in. She put a hand over her mouth, but she couldn't stifle the ragged sob that came out.

Keegan looked as though he might come to her, but in the end, he didn't. He turned, opened the back door to the wind-driven rain and just stood there, neither in nor out, his broad shoulders rigidly straight.

Molly whispered his name, but if he heard her, he didn't respond.

He walked right out into the driving rain, leaving the door open.

Molly hesitated, then followed. Saw him walking, not toward the barn, where he might have had some shelter and the comfort the animals might have lent him just by their presence, but in the direction of the bridge.

Was he going to Rance's place, across the creek?

Molly moved out into the downpour herself, barely feeling the unseasonable chill as it soaked her clothes and pounded at her hair.

It was dark over at Rance's.

“Keegan!” She ran after him, splashing through puddles, slipping in mud. “Keegan!”

He stopped, turned around. There was so little light—just what came from the house and the barn—but she could see his face clearly, etched with shadows and pain.

“Keegan,” she repeated, knowing she sounded desperate and not caring.

She stopped. Waited.

He stood still, as heedless of the torrent as Molly had been. She was feeling the cold more acutely now; it reached deep into her bones, and it had, she realized, little if anything to do with the weather.

She held out one hand.

Keegan hesitated. But then he clasped the hand she offered, interlaced his fingers with hers. Tightened his grip.

Molly could never remember, afterward, whether he'd led her back to the house or she'd led him.

They walked slowly inside.

Stood by the stove, both of them sodden.

Molly
did
remember that she was the one to unbutton Keegan's cotton shirt, the one he'd changed into at Psyche's, and slide it off his shoulders. She remembered trying to dry him with the towels, and how he'd clasped her wrist in one hand and stopped her.

How he'd stared down into her eyes, then pulled her hard against him and kissed her—not tenderly, but with a ferocity, a demand, that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Psyche Ryan.

She did not recall their going upstairs, except in the dimmest way. She simply found herself with Keegan, in his room.

He undressed her—not roughly, but not gently, either.

She allowed it, craved his passion, even knowing it wasn't meant for her. He was about to use her, and she was about to let him.

She didn't expect to feel anything except overwhelming sorrow, but she did. Oh, God,
she did.

She stood trembling as he kissed her neck, her shoulders, hoisted her up so that she had to wrap her bare legs around his waist to stay balanced. He bent his head to her breasts, first one, then the other, suckling greedily. And even the cold wetness of his jeans against the insides of her thighs did nothing to cool the primitive blaze his mouth ignited within her.

“Keegan,” she pleaded.

They fell together onto the bed.

Keegan broke away from her, unfastened his jeans, peeled out of them. He looked almost savage as he stared down at her, rasped her name.

Her
name. Thank God he hadn't called her Psyche.

Molly lifted her arms to him.

He flung back the covers on the bed, shoved her under them and joined her there.

There would be no foreplay this time. Molly knew that.

There would only be taking.

There would only be giving.

Keegan stretched out on top of her, balanced on his forearms, and looked down into her face. His body felt hard and icy cold, but it was beginning to warm, kindling to the answering flames within her.

She pulled the covers up over both of them, moaned with despairing pleasure as he slid down to suckle briefly at both her breasts.

He moved upward again, eased her legs apart with one knee and looked into her eyes. She felt him, ready to move inside her, hard and big. And she felt her own body expanding to receive him.

She nodded, her hands on his back.

He entered her, paused again.

Molly murmured his name.

He slammed into her then, in a single, powerful thrust of his hips, and Molly cried out, not from pain, but from passion.

He stopped. “Molly—?”

He wanted to know if he'd hurt her.

She wept, cupped her hands on either side of his beautiful, swollen, fist-battered face and kissed him with everything she felt.

When he raised his mouth from hers, both of them breathless, he looked so deeply into her eyes that she was sure he must have seen her soul, uncovered all her secrets, including the fact that, against all reason and good sense, she loved him.

The pace of their lovemaking increased after that.

It was hard.

It was fast.

It was sacred.

The first orgasm was Molly's utter undoing. She bucked, helpless, beneath Keegan's body as it collided with hers. She tangled her fingers in his wet hair, struggled to capture his mouth with hers even as she dug her heels into the mattress and raised herself to take him deeper and deeper inside her.

Keegan came after she did, after she'd begun the sweet anguish of descent, his body flexing against hers, straining for release. She felt his warmth spill into her, held him when he fell, trembling, onto her.